


Late night talks

by TinyThoughts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coping, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Just someone to talk to, New Beginning, Talking, a little help, a little hurt, becoming friends?, blankets and comfort, i might hurt a little too, just hurt boys hurting a little, not sure what to call this, way to start something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23013841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyThoughts/pseuds/TinyThoughts
Summary: Harry can't sleep and stumbles upon thoughts someone didn't intend to share. A small story about a late night in front of a fire, thoughts trying to break free and how to deal with them.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Late night talks

**Author's Note:**

> My boys, I love them so much. I just want them to feel better, and I wrote this as I was hurting just a little, letting them soothe and calm myself and each other. A small walk from enemies to possibly friendship, possibly more? Sometimes when I don't have anyone to talk to, I let them talk to each other.

So it all comes down to this.

It’s in the middle of the night and Harry can’t sleep. He is now in the room he was given in the eight years new tower. It’s too quiet. No snores, snuffles and other nightsounds from sharing a room with someone. Or a tent.

  
Harry sits up, grabs his blanket and puts his feet on the cold stone floor. Maybe the common room can provide him with what he lacks. Sounds? Company? Or just a fire to stare into, reflecting over all his mistakes, all he did and all he couldn’t.

  
The corridor is abandoned. So is the common room when he gets there. He wraps the blanket tighter around himself and makes his way to the group of couches in front of the fire. One couch is occupied by a big pile of blankets. Someone left paper and ink carelessly thrown over the small table in front of it. A quill lies in a small pool of ink that must have dripped off it. The lid to the ink is nowhere to be seen.

  
Harry sits down on the couch next to the pile, sighing softly. Folding his legs under him, curling into the armrest. Thoughts are circling around, making noise and crashing into his skull. The fireplace gives the room a subdued feel, perfect for brooding.  
But he doesn’t feel like brooding.

  
Instead, Harry studies the papers in front of him. Scribbles he can’t make out in a handstyle vaguely familiar. Of course it would be familiar, he knows every person who decided to come back and complete their education.

  
Curiosity getting the better of him, Harry reaches out and grabs a paper.

_Somehow I just wish that someone could see me?_

The sentence stands out, the one thing that actually was written with care. He grabs another one, even though this seems private. But what if someone needs help?

_I feel like I am in a bubble. There is this constant pressure behind my bones, in my chest. It aches and pushes and I can’t make out what to change, how to make it go away. I have tried so many things but should I give up? Just be who they see?_

Harry is so wrapped up in what he’s reading that he doesn’t notice the pile of blankets move. He picks up another page, suspicions of just whose thoughts he is reading.

_I have people close to me, people who care. But how can it be that with them around, close, I have no one to talk to? It is not about trust, I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t think I want them to know about this part of me. But I desperately need someone to see me_.

“That’s private.”

Harry startles, finally noticing a disheveled Draco Malfoy sticking out of the pile of blankets. His cheek has an imprint from the fabric, his hair sticking up in angles he never expected Malfoyan hair to dare, eyes redshot with dark circles underneath.

“Sorry.” But he doesn’t put the page down. “Are you okay?”

  
They look at each other a second, before Malfoy breaks into a humorless laugh, looking down on his hands.

“You tell me, you’re the one snooping.”

“Sorry.” Is all Harry can say again, finally letting the page return to the others on the table. They don’t look at each other, the fire crackles softly.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Harry finally admits. “It’s like there is too much in my head, and everytime I close my eyes I….” He doesn’t finish but he doesn’t have to. They were in the same war after all.

“Me neither.” Malfoy says quietly. Harry glances at him, but he is staring into the flames, fiddling with his own fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asks, not sure if he actually wants to.

“No.”

“Alright.” Silence. “Can I talk? A little?”

Another tiny silence. And then.

  
“If you must.”

So Harry talks, a little. He mentions nothing of what he just read, nothing too overwhelming. Not the real darkness. But about the small things. The things he can do something about, but also can’t. His own loneliness.

  
Sometimes Malfoy actually replies, shares a small terror of his own. But mostly they sit in silence. It’s nice.

Harry sinks more and more into his own blanket, letting his head fall back into the soft cushions. Staring into the high ceilings darkness. It would seem that he is finally getting tired. He chances a glance at Malfoy, who also sunk back into his fortress of pillows and blankets.

“I sometimes write what I can’t say.” Malfoy suddenly says. “And then I read it and burn it.”

“Why?”

“It helps, I find, to release and try to put to words what I … feel. Self discovery, in a way. Sometimes I surprise myself with what comes out.”

“But why burn it?”

“It is for me. I can’t.. Share, can’t show. It is dangerous to show.”

And Harry can understand that, being who both of them are, seeing the lives that they lived. He looks at Malfoy, almost surprised that he is watching him too. Harry smiles a little.

“I'm sorry.” Harry says again.

“Shut up, Potter.” Malfoy smiles a little too, now laying down entirely on the couch, head on the armrest closest to Harry's couch.

“You were not meant to see it but… I guess it’s all right.” Malfoy is very much not looking at him now. “Just don’t tell anybody.”

They both know that Malfoy could do nothing if Harry actually told anyone anything. They both also know that nobody would either believe him or give a shit.

“I won't.” Harry says, just because. “Should we burn it now? Before anybody else comes snooping?”

Malfoy snorts, looking amused up at Harry. He can’t help but smile too.

“With the exception of yourself, I usually never meet anyone down here at this hour.”

Malfoy rises and Harry notices for the first time what he’s wearing. A soft looking pyjamas, for some reason a huge black T-shirt that looks more like it would be Goyles and a pair of fuzzy trousers with green dots on them. And Harry can’t help himself, because that was not a look he expected on Malfoy.

“Did you rob a muggle of their pyjamas, Malfoy?” He laughs, not mockingly he finds, but genuine and happy. Another thing he didn’t expect from this night.

Malfoy glares at him and grabs a fistful of his notes.

“Shut up.” He crouches in front of the fireplace and feeds his feelings to the flames. Harry rises to join him on the floor, bringing the last pages with him.

Malfoy looks at him from the corner of his eyes, lifting his hand to ask for the papers.

“Not all that elegant yourself, Potter.” He says, nodding at Harry's own pyjamas. Well, a bright orange Chudley Cannons print ornating his own t-shirt might give that impression, yes.

“I feel plenty elegant, thank you very much.” He smirks towards the fire, watching the paper curl in on itself, the edges darkening and fall apart.

“I can see why you like burning it.”

They sit together in silence, listening to the fire feeding. Crabbe between them, where they both somehow failed.

“I'm sorry.”

Harry startles so bad, he almost loses his balance. He stares at Malfoy, staring into the fire stubbornly. Just looking at the person next to him. They are both just kids, really, and everything is suddenly too much. He looks away.

“I want to try something new.” Malfoy mumbles and Harry stares at the carpet they are sitting on.

“Okay?” He says after a moment, still not looking up.

“Thank you.” Malfoy says, so quietly Harry almost can’t hear it. He looks up again, their eyes meeting. Malfoy clears his throat. Tries again.

“Thank you. For not letting them..”

Harry smiles at him, a small, tired thing.

  
Thank you and Forgive me.  
The two worst phrases Harry knows. He is sick and tired of them, tired of their apologizing and tired of their thanks. But so incredibly important. And Harry makes a decision.

He sticks out his hand towards Malfoy, hoping for him to grasp it.  
It is time to move on.

“You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at dapandapod at Tumbler.  
> Hugs for everyone!


End file.
